


always one foot on the ground

by knowyourwayinthedark



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: Alternate Universe - Javert Survives, Awkward Sex, Blowjobs, Bondage, First Time, Frotting, Handcuffs, M/M, Middle Aged Virgins, PWP, guess who's got performance anxiety, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-08-12
Packaged: 2017-12-23 08:03:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/923887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knowyourwayinthedark/pseuds/knowyourwayinthedark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quastvert/Colmjean porn where there is a first time and then there are handcuffs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Carmarthen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmarthen/gifts).



Their first attempt goes mostly as expected – if one’s past nemesis, still feral and fearsome, can suck at one’s neck and chest and grope at the fork of one’s trousers in a way that can be called “expected” – but the soft grunting noises of mild frustration Javert makes, and the concentrated furrow of his brow, are all familiar, the same single-minded ferocity applied to rutting against Valjean’s prick as to cracking a difficult case or a recalcitrant eyewitness.

Which means, of course, that it is not too surprising, that while the deed is pleasurable it is also somewhat lacking in some aspects of comfort – Javert’s motions too brisk, grinding against Valjean’s body as they lie on the bed, his attentions to sensitive portions too rough, his teeth a little too harsh on Valjean’s neck, prompting a sudden shock of pain; Valjean hisses, startled, Javert lifts his eyes, and the flash of steely gray is lidded with uncertainty.

“Apologies,” he says brusquely, and ducks his head, ears turning scarlet. Valjean reaches to slip a hand into Javert’s trousers, but Javert twists his hips away and mutters, “No, no,” leaning in, pressing his mouth hot and wet to Valjean’s collarbone, and Valjean loses the urge to argue in a mindless gasp and a leaping heat in his chest.

Javert moves and straddles Valjean’s thigh, then, a hand working between Valjean’s flies to grasp at his cock and draw it out, calluses coarse but providing welcome friction. “Do you like this?” he asks – practically demands – practically barks it at Valjean, as though this were an interrogation. But then his thumb rubs across the underside of Valjean’s cock, and, “Yes,” Valjean says, and shudders as Javert begins to rub in a quick, unpracticed motion, “oh, Christ, Javert,” and he bucks, grits his teeth, Javert’s grip is raw and rough and – “Not that tight, please –”

Javert eases off instantly, lips tight, and Valjean groans, thrusts involuntarily into Javert’s loosened grasp. “Relax – Javert, please relax,” he adds, because Javert’s face is lined, tight with a furious, resolute focus. He wants to see that face go slack with pleasure, he wants to wipe it clean with bliss – so he sits up a little, and, rubbing his thigh a little against the hardness he feels between Javert’s legs, begins, “May I, please –?”

Javert’s face twists, his hips cant forward, his body convulses, and he is hunching, shaking, spend seeping through his trousers to dampen Valjean’s leg.

“Oh,” Valjean says, shocked, unsure. “I – oh.” Javert’s eyes are squeezed shut, something like anguish in his bared teeth as he rocks again, helplessly, on Valjean’s leg. Valjean watches, captivated. There is ecstasy there, but there is also a twisted shame, and he reaches forward – Javert’s eyes open, and they are hot with embarrassed fury.

“Fuck,” Javert mutters, and then, louder, “fuck, Christ, God damn it!” He gives a vicious jerk of his head. “Fuck, Valjean, if you had wanted to find out how best to mortify me, perhaps you should have dressed me as a clown and had me dance in the streets,” snarling now, glaring at some point to Valjean’s left, “if you had wanted someone who could – better please you, hold back like a grown man, be gentle, be kind, you could have picked anyone else, you should have known that I am not good at this.”

Valjean opens his mouth, but cannot think of what to say – so instead he sits up, kisses Javert, digs his hands into thick and graying hair, tries to kiss reassurance into the stubborn man he holds, tries to make clear without words that all is fine. But touch, it seems, is insufficient; “Javert,” he says, at last, breaking away, “Javert, all is well, apologies are unnecessary, this – it is not a thing to –” He is lost, he casts about. “This is not our only chance – we have been too long to be ruined by something this small.” And he flushes and kisses Javert again, not sure what else will come from him next, not trusting that he will not say something mortifying.

“Hell,” Javert mutters, finally, against Valjean’s mouth, but he sounds less agitated, more like himself, and Valjean sags in relief; Javert pushes them both down, hides his face in Valjean’s neck and mouths at it roughly. Every touch is scorching. His hand on Valjean’s cock returns to work, stroking relentlessly over his swollen flesh, Valjean is all afire – “Javert,” he gasps, tugs Javert’s head away from the crook of his neck, kisses him fiercely – all the tension bursts suddenly, mindless pleasure washing through him like a dam breaking.

When he opens his eyes and sees Javert’s face, the bewildered anger still there is beginning to be edged out by a faint and nervous pride – a relieving sight, a welcome one – he kisses Javert again. “It was wonderful,” he tells Javert truthfully, “I would not – I would not trade you for anything.”

Javert looks utterly stupefied, and only mutters, “Then you are madder than I had thought.” But he sounds like he might be beginning to believe it.


	2. Chapter 2

Javert does not often relax in the bedroom. Though he is more willing, now, to move slowly and respond to Valjean’s careful words of encouragement, often his movements degenerate into brisk, almost harassed repetitions, something Valjean has begun to recognize as nervousness getting the better of him. A kiss or a gentle hand might soothe him briefly, but Valjean still hopes that Javert might learn to relax completely – though he still is tense and uneasy even when he permits Valjean to touch him, even when Valjean kisses him with all the care and kindness he can muster.

It is frustrating, to say the least, though there are moments when he can see the genuine pleasure Javert takes, how his nerves only stem from a fierce determination to satisfy Valjean – and all he can do is persist, and search for new ways to ease Javert’s anxieties, and hope.

What he finds, though, is not what he might have expected.

It begins one night when Valjean takes Javert’s wrists in hand and pins them to the bed above his head: an impulsive move, brought on by a fit of mischief and the wine in his belly. The same impulse makes Valjean keep his grip firm and his weight heavy on his hands, so although at first Javert squirms, as expected, tries to yank free with a little impatient growl – he grows quiet, gradually, and then, under Valjean’s amazed eyes, goes limp, body easing into the covers, face slackening and eyes fluttering shut.

After a few seconds his eyes pop open again.

“Yes, Valjean?”

Valjean has been staring – this loose-limbed, unresisting Javert seems so deeply uncharacteristic it is more bemusing than arousing – though arousing it is, he finds, a few moments later, as Javert squirms absentmindedly in an insinuating motion, long and languorous and relaxed against Valjean’s body.

He ducks down and sucks at Javert’s neck, then, and slides his cock along the hollow of the other man’s thigh, Javert’s prick hot against his belly, and Javert lets out such noises as he never had heard before. “You like this?” His fingers squeeze around Javert’s wrists, and the low, half-mortified moan is answer enough. Valjean ruts against Javert’s groin again, and the thighs he straddles tense and then go limp once more. Long limbs and a wide frame, taller than him by a head, but spread open and willing under his weight – this side of Javert is new, brought forth by the lock of Valjean’s fingers about his wrists. Deliberately, Valjean slows his thrusts against Javert’s body, focuses on drawing out his pleasure, watches Javert’s face change and hears his moans increase in pitch and raggedness –

But he wants to do more than just rut their bodies together, he wants to curl his fingers around the straining weight of Javert’s prick, he wants to wring pleasure from him with his mouth and fingers, he wants to do all the things Javert has yet been unable to permit – he needs his hands free, but he cannot, not when they are occupied with keeping Javert secure and relaxed. He needs something to bind Javert, something with enough weight to replace the pressure of his hands.

Handcuffs. He has seen them, known their heft; they will be sufficient. Valjean stills in his motions. “Give me a moment, Javert,” he says quickly, and releases Javert’s hands, peels away and rises from the bed to cross to the drawers where Javert keeps his possessions.

A glance over his shoulder, as he fumbles at the drawers, reveals Javert stirring slowly; by the time he returns with the handcuffs, the haze of relaxation has somewhat dissipated, and Javert’s brow is furrowed slightly, mouth tight. “Valjean, is this entirely necessary?” he mutters.

“I only need my hands free.” Gently, Valjean brushes his thumb from the crook of Javert’s elbow up to his wrist; Javert shivers when Valjean’s thumb presses lightly over his pulse. “I will unlock them the moment you wish me to,” he promises, and when he touches the iron to Javert’s wrists there is no protest, only a soft noise that sends heat racing through his body again.

Javert tests the bounds of the chain first, tugs briefly, moves his hands apart until the chain Valjean has looped around the headboard cuts them short; it seems almost unconscious; there is no fight in it. Then he relaxes again, sighs, and the gaze he turns to Valjean is – frank, honest, an admission of desire, an invitation. Valjean swallows and lowers himself to the bed, settling belly-down between Javert’s legs.

Javert arches up into the first stroke of Valjean’s hand, almost gracefully, with none of the jerky fervor that had constrained his motions in the past; now Valjean can savor the feel of his prick, how it fits against his palm, can slow the movements of his hand to watch Javert’s every reaction. It seems Javert likes when his hand turns on the upstroke, when he tightens his grip as he nears the ridge of the crown, when he rubs his thumb in the slickness at the tip and spreads it over the head – Javert is _enjoying_ this, he realizes; for once, Javert’s pleasure is obvious, unabashed .

He lets go and spreads his hands over Javert’s hips; when he bends to close his lips over the head of his cock Javert moans loud, mindless, unashamed, “Valjean –” The chain jangles. Valjean groans around Javert’s cock, unable to stop himself, and sweeps his hands over Javert’s ribs, his belly, his hips, rubs along his thighs – with each touch Javert continues to come apart, panting helpless words. His head rolls back on the pillows, tangling the spread of hair about it. “Please, Valjean. More, more, _please_ –”

When had Javert ever asked for his own pleasure like this? Hardly ever –he had always refused anything Valjean would offer – but now he practically begs as Valjean’s lips move steadily up the shaft of his prick, as his tongue curves around the underside, as he sucks carefully at the tip. “God, Valjean, do not stop, please, yes, I –”

And he spills, shaking, into Valjean’s mouth, rolling his hips upwards, letting out a loud moan – which turns into a series of short desperate gasps as Valjean continues to suck at his cock, his lips tight on the head, wanting only to see Javert’s face still contorted with ecstasy, wanting to hear Javert keep making those noises of helpless pleasure.

It is with great reluctance that he eases off, finally, and wipes his mouth, rubbing his other hand in small circles on Javert’s side as his breathing slows and his cock lies, softening, against his thigh. Javert sated is even more languid and pliant than before; the relief evident in his brow, his lowered eyelids, and the relaxed lines of his body stirs something not quite as lustful in Valjean’s chest. He rises to his knees, still studying Javert’s face. Javert seems – content. Pleased, as he had never quite seemed even when applying himself entirely to Valjean’s pleasure. When he runs his hand across Javert’s brow, Javert sighs and turns his head into the touch, nosing lightly at the heel of Valjean’s hand. Valjean swallows, struck suddenly with a wave of almost painful emotion. He does it again, and this time Javert’s eyes open slightly, his hands shift a little in their chains – the cuffs rattle, jolting Valjean from his reverie.

“I ought to unlock those,” he mutters to himself, and rises on his knees, turns to take the key from its place on the bedside table; when he opens the cuffs, Javert’s hands slip out slowly, and he can see marks where the metal had dug into the skin. He brings them down to Javert’s chest and strokes them gently.

Javert’s hands turn in his grasp, slipping down; his fingers brush his wrists, across the ridges of scars that lie there. Valjean twitches but stays still, does not pull away. “It did not hurt?” Valjean asks, trying not to be distracted by how Javert’s fingers trace the knotted scars, over and over, as though searching for something.

Javert does not answer, only shakes his head; his fingers make one final pass over Valjean’s wrists before he levers himself to a sitting position and reaches to take Valjean in hand. “Let me,” he murmurs, and strokes firmly; Valjean’s hips stutter forward and he sucks in a short breath. Javert rises to his knees and kisses Valjean, his knuckles bumping Valjean’s belly with each tug of his curled fist. There is no ferocious intensity to the way he works Valjean’s cock, and when Valjean kisses his neck Javert leans into him, his hair falling against Valjean’s face; Valjean breathes deeply and clutches at Javert’s waist, feeling a liquid heat mount in his body, and comes with a shuddering gasp, drinking in the warmth of Javert’s skin, shaking with each easy movement of his hand.

At the end, Javert says quietly, looking a little bewildered, “Thank you – I don’t know how to thank you,” and kisses him. And with no room for words, Valjean tries to kiss back the lack of need for gratitude – that Javert has given him a far more precious gift, that now he has seen Javert lost in pleasure it is all he hopes to strive for in the future.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally these were two separate fics but they were pretty well connected?? anyway I just didn't feel like making them into two separate works because the first one's kinda short and also fuck coming up with separate titles for each of them, honestly


End file.
